Free Homefires by Emily Sue Harvey

rising voice splintered my mulling. I noted his Walter Matthau candor – with the word “Baptist” tacked on.
    Being of the Methodist camp, knowing what I knew of Daddy’s recent decline into former vices, the entire thing reeked of spiritual rebellion. I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms against what I knew was coming: Daddy’s straddle-thefence, balance-act, with one leg hanging in the Methodist camp, the other dangling in the Baptist. He wanted the best of both worlds.
    His justification was that he grew up a Baptist and only switched to Methodism when he married Mama. So, dredging up his old Calvinism doctrine assured him of his eternal security – regardless of his slide back into the cigarette habit and an
occasional cuss word. And his stance on “once saved, always saved” as opposed to being “a lost backslider” directly related to how willing he was to give up his smokes.
    “Why,” he continued testily, “there’s not a thing in the Bible about cigarettes.”
    “There is about cussin’,” I mumbled under my breath as I arose and headed for the bathroom. Me? I believed doctrinal truth lay somewhere between the extremes of Calvinism and Arminianism. I relieved myself and on impulse headed for the closet used for storage, off the kitchen.
    I found her sitting on the floor inside the dim chamber with one hanging light bulb, her back to me, surrounded by out-of-season boxed clothing, Christmas and seasonal decorations, magazines and books, an old end table, chairs with broken legs and endless paraphernalia usually labeled “junk.”
    “Hey, Trish,” I said softly, warmed to be with her.
    She didn’t move. Then I noticed her legs were drawn up and she hugged her knees.
    “Trish?” I moved around her and gazed down into her face. “What’s wrong, honey?”
    Nothing moved but her eyes, those huge soulful, bottomless pools of sadness, raining tears. They clutched at my heart. “Honey,” I dropped down beside her and slid my arm around her. “What’s wrong?”
    Her head slowly moved from side to side. “I-I d-don’t know,” she whispered, holding back sobs, blinking with confusion. “I-I j-just can’t seem to get anything d-done.”
    I looked about us at the clutter and my stomach knotted. My aversion to clutter was and is classic. In fact, Trish usually – the rare times I charmed Anne into allowing it – helped bail me out when things piled up, finishing the job in no time flat. No, today’s paralysis was emotional.
    “Trish,” I gathered her to me, “I had these – spells, too, after Mama died, you know, when Daddy kept us away from MawMaw and Papa? It’s just nerves – frustration.” I rolled my eyes. “ Just is not a word to put in front of nerves. It’s a tough thing to handle, Trish, but I’m here for you. And Daddy is.” The silence stretched out. I sighed heavily. “Would you like for me to talk to Anne?”

    “ No!” This almost vehemently. Then she said more softly, “No, Sis. It won’t help.”
    I silently cursed the genes that conduct and spawn these danged cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof nervous systems that pick up on the tiniest nuances of sentiments as a threat , that blast one’s adrenaline level to kingdom come, that take a look or a phrase and blow it up to wide-screen, 3-D horror, that suck away at self-esteem ‘til one’s time is consumed with just surviving each moment, that make victims of good, otherwise strong people.
    “I’m okay,” she awkwardly arose and commenced to attack the task. “I’m just tired. This old cold seems to be hanging on longer than usual.” She looked pale and beneath her eyes looked as if shaded by a dark crayon.
    “Has Anne – ?”
    “No.” Trish looked me in the eye. “It’s not anything she’s done . Honest. It’s just me.”
    “Promise me you’ll come to me if I can help you.”
    “Okay, Sis.” She turned from me and began shuffling things around.
    Back in the den, things were still hopping. “I know he was